Dead In The Water: Gun powder and cheap thrills


Jacob Stewart, Columnist

We’ve passed the 5th of November, readers. Parliament still stands, as does our bizarre and crooked Congress. Guy Fawkes has come and gone, as have all those that have followed in his footsteps. In other news, Rome lies in ruins, the Celtic Tiger slumbers, while its brethren fight in Spain, and the Third Reich might have lost the war, but it has been given the freedom of speech, marching on in the streets of America.

Yes, my friends, I could go on. Another blitzkrieg against the American Way, but my psychiatrist doesn’t think it is doing any favors to my mental state, and with my shaking hands and constant thirst for the single malt Irish whiskey in the kitchen, I’d have to agree with him. Rum Brain Moe, the mysterious New England witch doctor who was once a pivotal element of my short-lived days as a freelance Facebook journalist, now works as my personal shrink, and while he may be far crazier than myself, I have never doubted his wisdom.

I suppose I should follow the doc’s advice. I think some time on the wagon will do me some good. The last thing I need is my ugly mug on wanted posters for subversive activities against America, but I suppose I still have a little time for that. After all, I’m at the back of the line with the likes of Paul Manafort and Michael Flynn, and I have yet to hear of any backlash from my last article, so either I failed to strike a nerve, or perhaps our Commander in Chief’s mind was on other things. I could be insulted, but I’ll simply bide my time for when re-election comes around. Anyway, let’s get optimistic.

The Plains Writers Series and Poetry Slam XXXVIII (38 for those who don’t read Roman numerals) is coming up, and for those of you who have never been, I would stress the need for your attendance. If you want your mind blown, or your soul to be brought up from the depths of midterms and the approach of the sinister winter, Humanities and The Max are the places to be on Nov. 16. This is where the truth will be, readers.

You won’t find the answers from your congressmen, or from the White House Press Room.

No, you come for what might just seem like cheap thrills on Main Street, but you’ll find that this is the place where people speak of love, life and death in ways so vivid that you might just think you’ve taken some kind of hallucinogenic concoction from a one-eyed mystic’s basement.

If that’s not a worthy endorsement, I don’t know what is.

All right, folks, I think that is enough optimism for this old con. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go have another session with the good doctor.

I think hearing about this piece will show him I’m making progress, and with any luck, he might lighten the load from the massive bill I have to pay.

Friend or not, he’s still a part of the medical profession.